


Intrusive Thoughts

by BoomyMcBlasty



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Misogyny, Panic Attacks, Post-Game(s), Sex Toys, Vaginal Sex, Violent Thoughts, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoomyMcBlasty/pseuds/BoomyMcBlasty
Summary: He leaves a kiss on her forehead and fishes a small box from under his chair, simple and nondescript. Ingrid eyes it curiously“Wish I could tell you it’s for you, but it’s actually for me.” Sylvain is about to open it when he remembers something. “I dismissed the servants for the evening, so… yeah, don’t worry about them.”Marrying the love of his life doesn't solve Sylvain's many issues with women or himself.A character study set after the game.





	Intrusive Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the Sylvain/Ingrid shared epilogue in the Azure Moon route.

Sylvain rubs his chilly hands together before knocking. Despite the fancy carpets and tapestries, the Royal Palace is almost as cold as Fhirdiad itself.

“Come in.”

Without his armor and fur, Dimitri looks less imposing—still, he is the King. When Sylvain enters the study room, he bows before closing the door behind himself.

“Sylvain.” Dimitri looks at him like he wants to scold him, but he’s smiling. He turns to stoke the fire. “I thought you were here as my friend, not as Margrave Gautier.”

“You’re right.” He would love to have a witty comeback or a joke, but he can’t muster any.

His right hip bone has been tingling for hours, a distraction that is driving him mad. Sylvain takes a seat on one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace and sinks in it with a sigh.

“You look distressed.” Dimitri sits as well. He needs to turn his head to see Sylvain. Right, his right is… 

_ A selfish man, undeserving of the title of friend. _How could he forget about Dimitri’s blind spot? Sylvain sighs again and tries to rub the tingling of his bone away. 

Dimitri waits for him, patiently. _ Stealing away his precious time with worthless silence _. When Sylvain still can’t muster the words, Dimitri places a hand on his shoulder. The distracting discomfort subsides for a brief moment, and the silent encouragement is enough to make Sylvain speak.

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these… thoughts.”

_ Rip the bone away. It’s so friable you can crush it with your hands. _

Dimitri’s eye widens, but he doesn’t say anything.

“They’re not voices, not always. Sometimes they’re mental images of... possibilities.”

_ With enough force, you can slam against a wall and dent it. _

“Sometimes they are physical sensations, like this damn tingle.” Sylvain touches the hip bone and imagines it splintering under his hands. Only a thin layer of skin protects it, he could—

Dimitri squeezes his shoulder. “You never told us.”

“They were never an issue.” Sylvain’s hands are trembling. He clutches them on his lap, lets the flames of the fireplace play with the reflections on his armored gloves. “I used to act on them.”

Dimitri’s face betrays his confusion. Sylvain feels almost like laughing, ashamed of who he used to be.

“I would make sure a girl wanted us to be exclusive, then I’d suggest a threesome, just to mess with her and see her cry.” His mouth feels dry. He swallows hard. “I would kiss strangers in front of my latest fling just to make her feel insignificant, to show her how easily I could discard her.”

Dimitri doesn’t say anything, which is worse than a scolding or anger or disgust, all things that Sylvain knows he deserves.

“I hated those women, and those thoughts helped me get to them.”

He scratches his hip bone through the fabric of his riding pants. Not enough. _ Feel the sharp ridge with your fingertips. Press hard enough to tear the skin. _

“But now… now those thoughts are directed at Ingrid and I— and I can’t— and at myself—” Sylvain turns to face his King. “How do I make them stop? How did you make the voices stop?”

“I can’t make them stop.” Dimitri’s gaze focuses on the fireplace. He gives Sylvain’s shoulder another squeeze. “I can still hear them now, albeit faint.”

“This tingling…” Sylvain slides a hand roughly on his hip bone, and the jolt of pain, no matter how weak, is enough for the distraction to fade away for a second. “This is the last place Ingrid touched when I said goodbye this morning. Her hand lingered there and she looked so…”

Ingrid looked so proud of him, so happy to be with him. She wished him a good day and left a sweet kiss on his lips; her hands lingered on his face, then on his side. They would only spend two days apart, but that had become an exception in their shared life, not the rule. She always had trouble saying goodbye, even if she risked being late at the border.

“_ The thoughts _ have decided that I need to get rid of the hip bone she must like oh so very much.” Sylvain shudders, disgusted. “It’s irrational, Dimitri. It doesn’t make sense, but I swear that if the tingling doesn’t stop, I’m going to—”

Dimitri squeezes his shoulder again, this time with some force, and the sensation grounds him. 

“I can still rule with only one good eye. But Sylvain, a whole bone…”

When Sylvain looks at Dimitri, he sees a softness he hasn’t allowed himself to feel, ever, about his situation.

“Today the thoughts are particularly bad.” Sylvain is not minimizing, just giving him more perspective. The tingling makes him want to scrape the whole bone clean. “They’re usually rare, and directed at her. I could never hurt her, so why….”

“Sometimes the voices are angry with Byleth.” Dimitri lets go of his shoulder and faces the fireplace. “They are furious with her, with her ways of peace.” It’s his time to look frail, to look like a man instead of a King. “When they do… the nightmares last for days.” Dimitri turns to face him with a lowered gaze. “Sylvain, what I’m about to tell you is confidential. Promise me…”

“I won’t tell anyone.” No matter what the thoughts say, they _ are _friends, even if they are a King and a glorified border guard.

“When the nightmares come… Sylvain, I am terrified of hurting her. She is sleeping next to me, so frail despite her strength…” Dimitri purses his lips together, hesitates. “I have a set of soft leather restraints for when the nightmares are too much. The sound of them snapping… is enough to wake her up.”

Sylvain only sees shame on Dimitri’s face, and not the bashful kind. Has he actually hurt Byleth in his sleep, to have restraints ready? Probably, and knowing Dimitri’s strength, it must have been...

Sylvain raises from the armchair and gestures for the King to do the same.

Their hug is awkward, but is enough. It lasts for however long Dimitri needs it, which is almost a whole minute, but Sylvain is happy to provide comfort how he can.

He can’t imagine actually hurting Ingrid. Can’t imagine what it must feel like. Not even the thoughts wander there.

“I’m surprised you didn’t have a witty comment about it.” Dimitri is smiling when he pats his shoulder gently and they part.

“I can read a room, you know.” Sylvain manages to make his tone light for the first time during their meeting. “I’m not _ that _much of a jerk.”

“Being focused on something helps me drown out the voices.” Dimitri tends to the fire and Sylvain sits back down. “When do your _ thoughts _… happen?”

Sylvain rides back to Gautier territory the day after, alone and with much thinking to do.

_ If you fall to the ground, you can make it pass as an accident. _

The tingling is driving him insane.

*

Some weeks after his trip to Fhirdiad, his surprise for Ingrid is ready. He plans to give it to her after dinner.

“I don’t understand why you don’t like the gratin, it’s…” She takes another huge bite and closes her eyes, content. “It’s divine.”

Her table manners are perfect, but despite following etiquette, she still eats with such fervor… Sylvain can’t help finding her adorable.

“It’s just cheese,” he answers with a shrug.

As soon as Ingrid finishes her plate, the maid takes it from the table and leaves the dining room. Sylvain talked to her beforehand to make sure she wouldn’t interrupt.

“Do we perchance have… dessert?”

Sylvain clutches his chest with a dramatic expression. “Am I not sweet enough for you?”

Ingrid’s usual frown has lost its bite and is now just part of their routine exchange of quips. “You’re eye candy, I want some real dessert.”

“At least you admit I’m handsome.” Sylvain slips in a wink that makes Ingrid’s eyes roll.

“As if you need me admitting it to know it.” She leans in to give him a quick peck on the lips, always cautious when the servants might be around. Instead of parting from him, she looks at him through her lashes. “You’ve been weird lately.”

Her lovely green eyes are one of Sylvain’s biggest weaknesses. Her tender voice, full of concern, works wonders on his poor heart and makes it skip a beat, and _ they are married _. He is hopeless when it comes to her.

_ Now or never. _

He leaves a kiss on her forehead and fishes a small box from under his chair, simple and nondescript. Ingrid eyes it curiously.

“Wish I could tell you it’s for you, but it’s actually for me.” Sylvain is about to open it when he remembers something. “I dismissed the servants for the evening, so… yeah, don’t worry about them.”

Inside the box, a hollow ball carved out of cherry wood rests atop of a sponge,. Two leather straps lie on the sides, already hooked to the ball.

Ingrid looks at the box, then at Sylvain, lost.

“It’s a ball gag,” he says with a smirk. “Got it from a small store in Fhirdiad that specializes in marital novelties.”

“...for you?” Ingrid’s face doesn’t betray sadness or anger, but she doesn’t seem elated about the idea. “Why?”

“Sometimes I feel like… some old parts of me fight hard to come back.”

Ingrid nods, absentmindedly. She knows about _ the thoughts _, knows that Sylvain used to listen to them, used to follow them religiously. She doesn’t know that they are focused on her now.

“I wouldn’t want my stupid big mouth to ruin what we have.” He takes her hands in his. He’s putting on his jolly face, but he can tell she isn’t buying it.

“Sylvain.” Ingrid rests her head against his shoulder, hiding her face. “What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing. I just… you know how I went to Fhirdiad, right?” She nods. “I asked Dimitri how he deals with his own… _ issues _. He gave me some tips.”

She takes a deep breath. “The thoughts became so bad that you had to ask him?” Her voice breaks; soon enough Sylvain feels a wet spot on his collarbone and starts rubbing her arm, trying to soothe her. Goddess, why does she have to be so smart? He usually loves that about Ingrid, but he doesn’t like how perceptive she is about the whole issue. _ If she learns about what you think, she’ll leave you. Even Ingrid has limits. _

“I have everything under control.”

That night, Sylvain brings the box to the bedroom.

“Wanna see how it looks on me?”

She doesn’t, but she stays seated under the blankets, waiting for him. Sylvain gives her his back—it’s a surprise!—and takes the ball gag from the box. The taste of it in his mouth is not what he had expected; he thought the cherry wood would taste like the fruit… Goddess, he feels dumb. He fumbles with the leather straps behind his head. Once the ball gag is secured, he tries to speak. Sure, his vocal chords can produce sounds, but they don’t form any intelligible words. The intrusion is welcome, it’s _ perfect _, it’s working.

Sylvain turns around, attempting a smile. 

Ingrid’s face shatters when her eyes fall on his face. She covers her mouth, covers a sob before crawling next to him. Ingrid never cries, yet this is the second time in one day.

She shakes her head and touches his face, touches the leather strap resting on his cheek with gentleness. “No.” She unhooks the ball gag and takes it out of his mouth. Sylvain almost expects her to throw it on the ground—instead, she places it gently on the nightstand, still covered in saliva. “My love…” Ingrid wraps her arms around his shoulders, presses their bodies together. Sylvain is disgusted at himself for thinking that her breasts feel nice—she is crying. “I made a promise to you. Rely on _ me _, not on that… thing.” 

*

Sylvain tries, and they develop a pretty good system. The thoughts seem to come for a few days, then leave him alone. When they visit him, Ingrid leaves for the border and they communicate via pigeon letters. Sylvain throws himself at the worst part of his duties as Margrave, the governing of the territory and the petty squabbles between its people; the paperwork requires enough squinting and focus to make him pass out in the evening, without the time for the thoughts to bother him.

It’s not perfect, but it works as damage-control, and it becomes part of their routine... until it fails.

He should have expected it, really. The thoughts never had his best interest in mind, quite the opposite.

Their lovemaking took some months to become passionate, given Ingrid’s fears and inexperience. Once she learned more about herself and her own pleasure, she started initiating, to Sylvain’s delight. 

He loves having her grope him all dinner long, throw him on the bed and ride him until she is spent. He loves seeing her lose her composure and whimper in bliss before falling on his chest; cradling her in his arms always makes him feel like the most powerful man in all of Fódlan. Her taste is something he craves every day, and the feel of her breasts under his hands, and her thighs locking him in place make him hard at the mere thought.

The night of their first anniversary, Ingrid is on top of him, riding him to her heart’s content. She looks beautiful, so enraptured by what she’s taking that Sylvain is trying his best to lay still and not let this end too quickly. He could come from the view alone, and the feeling of her all around him, warm and soaked, makes pleasure sear his body. He frames her hips with his hands, following her rhythm. Ingrid looks glorious when she’s on top of him. _ Beautiful _.

“Aren’t you pretty like this, riding my cock like a frenzied whore.”

Sylvain feels the air leaving his lungs.

Ingrid pushes herself away. She covers her naked body with her arms; her eyes are wide and scared. Scared of him.

_ She’s going to leave you after you called her that. _

Sylvain tries to reach out, but his arms fail him. He can’t feel anything around him, just the softness of the pillow, a dark buzz in his head that drowns out the thought that slipped out of his lips. _ She’s going to leave you. _ A dull ache in his throat is the only thing that keeps him floating. Why can’t he speak? He needs to apologize, needs to tell her, he needs to—

“Breathe! Sylvain!” Ingrid’s voice. “You need to breathe!”

And he does. Air cashes back in his lungs, makes the pain in his throat so sharp that it steals a groan from him.

Ingrid, fuzzy in the candle light, is above him. “Like that, yes. Breathe.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is croaky and raw. “I’m sorry, I’m…”

“I know.” She is not crying. That is a relief, right? Ingrid takes his hand in between hers. “I’m not going to leave you.”

_ Lies _ . Sylvain tries to move, but he’s still too weak, too dizzy. “Why not?” _ She should. _

Ingrid kisses his hand and keeps it close to her face. “What kind of failure of a wife would I be if I left at the first hardship we encounter?”

“I called you… something horrible.”

Ingrid sighs. “Some people… are into that. Not me.” She attempts to smile. Is she… trying to tell a joke? “Now we know.”

Sylvain feels his eyes sting. “You’re stealing my job as the funny one.”

“You’re rubbing off on me. Do you feel better?”

He can breathe and he can speak. His head still feels scrambled, but at least he has it under control.

“Yeah.” She helps him sit on the bed. _ Pathetic. Broken _. She leaves a tender kiss on his cheek. “At least I’m loved,” he tells the thoughts with defiance.

Ingrid smiles. “Did you have doubts about that?”

*

The box takes its rightful place on Sylvain’s nightstand. Even if they don’t end up using the gag, he likes to have a restraint at hand, something that can physically stop _ the thoughts _ when he is not strong enough.

One night, after a particularly heavy dinner, Sylvain wakes up in the middle of the night with his throat dry and aching. He squeezes his eyes, focusing on the warmth of the thick blanket and on the weight of Ingrid, asleep next to him. He should go back to sleep as well, but his throat is on fire. Didn’t the servants leave a jug of water somewhere?

He slides out of bed, rubbing his arms in the chill of the night. He can’t see anything thanks to the thick curtains; his memory guides him to the small table in the corner of their bedroom. He finds an empty glass and a jug of water.

In his defense, it’s hard to pour water in the dark. “Shhhit.” He spilled some on his leg and on the floor. Oh, well. 

He chugs the glass and sighs, content. Much better.

He walks back to the bed, and as soon as he’s under the blankets, Ingrid rolls over to cuddle him with a needy noise. So cute… she’s nice and warm, and everything he could ever want.

“Bitch.”

No. No no no no NO!

Sylvain covers his mouth with his hand.  _ What is wrong with him?  _ Why does he have to ruin everything? She heard him. She heard her husband insult her for no reason and now she will finally have enough and will leave him. And it’s all his fault. He’s rotten to the core; he can’t even enjoy what he has without wondering about its end.

He’s been happy for too long—something must shatter the illusion of perfection he feels every day with Ingrid. He doesn’t deserve the quiet days with her, the happy days, the passionate days—they are about to end. She heard him and finally had enough.

The warmth of the bed now seems suffocating.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid’s sleepy voice fills him with dread.

“Yes?” His own voice seems foreign to him, broken and raspy. 

Ingrid makes a surprised noise before sitting on the bed. “You’re crying.”

“I ruined everything, didn’t I?”

It’s dark and he can’t see her face. He can feel her fingers touch his face and free his forehead from the hair. Ingrid kisses him there, gently, while he tries to calm his breathing. “What are you talking about?”

“I called you something terrible.”

He can feel her hesitate. Are the thoughts back again, or did he have a bad dream? She lies back on the bed, next to him, claiming his arm. “That’s too bad.” Her tone is casual, yet he can feel her usual defiance behind it.

She’s not mad at him. She didn’t even hear him. Sylvain should be glad, yet…

He is weak and ashamed; the thoughts won because he  _ let _ them. He was doing better…

“Sylvain…” Ingrid punctuates her sentence with a yawn and cuddles closer. “The man I love would never say whatever the thoughts make you say.”

“He just called you—”   
“The thoughts that keep…” Another cute yawn. Her body feels nice against his own. “The thoughts that keep trying to sabotage you called me whatever.  _ Not you _ .”

Sylvain rubs his wet cheeks on the pillow. Ingrid is warm and real next to him, and loves him.

One day, Sylvain notices that the box is gone. Surprisingly, he doesn’t mind it that much.

* * *

Sylvain rubs his chilly hands together before knocking. No matter the season, Fhirdiad is always frosted in brine. It’s almost comforting.

“Come in.”

“Hey hey.” Sylvain enters the study room with a grin. “I saw Byelth looking _ pretty _flustered back in the hallway. What were you two up to, loverboy?”

Dimitri chokes on air and turns sharply to give him his back. He’s still so easy to tease...

“I’m happy to see that you are well, but… mind your words, I beg of you. The servants might hear.” The servants might _ see _the Archbishop trying to conceal a love bite, he means.

They sink in the armchairs, in front of the crackling fireplace. It works wonders for his ass after spending hours on that hard saddle. This time, Sylvain takes the left one, so Dimitri doesn’t have to strain his neck to look at him.

“You know... I’m an idiot.”

Dimitri conceals a smile with his hand. “You are.”

Sylvain chuckles before crossing his arms. He can't argue with that. “That time some years ago when I was here on friends-business instead of Margrave-business, you gave me two tips. Guess which one I tried first.”

Dimitri answers immediately: “The restraint.”

“Yup.” Sylvain shakes his head. “It kinda backfired, kinda didn’t.”

“What helped you?” Dimitri doesn’t ask for more details. He probably can’t take them.

Sylvain smiles. “I still hear them and feel them. They come and go like flashes, in this rotten head of mine. But they always focus on what I would lose.”

Dimitri lets him order his thoughts, lets him finish.

“I need to think... _ I _ need to focus on what I have.”

“What do you have?”

“A happy life with Ingrid, the love of my life. And that is enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> This... I don't know what this is. A pretty long headcanon I have about Sylvain, I guess.  
I could have written extensively about Sylvain and Ingrid trying to overcome together his issues, but I'm a softie and don't like to see them suffer.  
I was considering leaving the ending ambiguous, since I imagine that Sylvain will have to deal with his mental issues for his whole life, given the setting, but ultimately I wanted it to end on a positive, if a bit naive, note.  
EDIT: Added an extra scene.


End file.
